


impulse control.

by DictionaryWrites



Series: Intersections [1]
Category: Hotel Artemis (2018), Law & Order: Criminal Intent
Genre: Bad BDSM Etiquette, Bad Decisions, Biting, Dirty Talk, Gun Kink, Knifeplay, M/M, No Incest, Power Dynamics, Prequel, Sadism, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-07-20 21:10:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16145588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: Orian is relaxing when someone new sidles into the bar like he owns the place - like heknowshim.Maybe he does.





	impulse control.

On the twelfth of July, 2011, Orian sits in a plush, comfortable backroom of the Weston Casino, leaning back in his chair. It’s an easy Saturday night – in two hour or so, the doors to the night club here in the back will open up, and people will start filtering in, start dancing to the music… But for now, it’s quiet.

The room is dim, primarily lit by the neon glow of the blue lights that run down the length of the twin bars, and the light shines off the panels of the dancefloor. Later on tonight, Orian thinks, he’ll celebrate a good week, line up a few pretty twinks plucked from out of the crowd and, uh, see who’d like the Wolf King to take ‘em home.

Distantly, Orian smiles, and he brings the vape machine Miranda had bought him his last birthday to his lips, dragging in a lungful of mildly sweet vapour. He’d smoked on and off, when he was a young man – never more than one or two cigarettes a day when he was at his worst, and usually a little less than one a week, but as he’d gotten older, he’d tried to put cigarettes away entirely. Sure, he’ll have a cigar now and then, share it with a particularly impressive bodyguard or supplier, or – more usually – a business partner, but cigarettes, no…

He’d only mentioned it, vaguely, at breakfast, but Miranda, she’s— A real chop off the old block, she really is. She looks a little like Orian, too, with the dark eyes, the set of her mouth, even the hair – as pretty as he’d been, too, at her age. ‘Course, Miranda, she’s, uh, a real… Well.

Suffice it to say, he’s fairly sure that Miranda will probably kill him one day. It’s a nice thought, comforting. Good to know the family’ll be in good hands, with her at the prow – but she’s only 17. Maybe things’ll change, when Rachel comes out of this new _goth_ phase, or as Crosby grows into himself…

Hm. Maybe not Crosby. Rachel and Miranda, they’re born wolves. Crosby— Crosby, damn it all, is Orian’s favourite, but maybe he’s too soft on him.

Exhaling, Orian enjoys the cloud of vapour that surrounds him, takes in the sweet smell, the, uh— It’s _nice_. He likes the aesthetic of it, too – likes the way people shock and startle to see a _mob boss_ with a vape pen, likes the way you can easily take control of a situation just by blowing out a little cloud of steam and sweetness.

The door across the room opens with a click, and Orian turns his head, arching an eyebrow.

The Wolf King, in his repose, is not to be disturbed.

The staff at the Weston Casino are well-informed of this policy, and Orian, he— Golly. He just _hates_ to have to enforce these things, but needs must… The vapour slowly rises, disappearing like smoke, and Orian frowns slightly. Around the room, Orian can see some of his people look up, analysing the guy as he comes in. The barman has a chalky look of panic on his face, at seeing somebody interrupt; a runner, who is sitting on the bar, scowls. Jensen and Jonah, the two guards Orian has for the skeleton grew, both stiffen.

This guy, this, uh, little interloper? Not one of the casino staff.

He saunters forward, hands in his pockets; cop. Orian knows that immediately, just from the set of his hips and his shoulders, knows exactly what the academy turns out.

“Can I, uh— Can I help you, sweetheart?” Orian asks mildly. Mmm, he should have been informed, if someone was even on their way into the backroom, should have had somebody call from the reception. Tut tut. He doesn’t move to stand, and instead remains lounging back, his feet propped neatly up on a bar stool: without a word, two of his guards move forward, and Orian watches them move toward the cop. Orian can’t quite see his face, not yet – the lights are a little too dim, and God knows Orian’s vision isn’t what it used to be, but he’d barely slept last night, and he hadn’t even bothered trying to put in his contacts this morning.

About six feet away from the cop, both guards – Jonah _and_ Jensen – stop short.

“Well?” Orian prompts. “Pat him down.”

“Um, Mr Franklin,” Jonah says, and the cop steps forward, passing between the bodyguards, his brown leather boots making a quiet sound as he moves across the polished floor. He’s a little taller than Jensen, but not quite as tall as Jonah – the same height as Orian, then, gosh. Dark brown hair, combed neatly down toward his face, and a nice body, too – unfortunately hidden under a leather jacket, but the shirt is nice and tight, shows a firm chest, a slightly rounded belly, and, uh, some _deliciously_ long legs. Mmm, yeah, Orian likes that.

And—

Orian’s gaze stops on the cop’s face, and his lips part.

“You can help me,” the cop murmurs, his voice a low purr, and Orian leans forward, slowly putting his feet on the ground. The cop reaches into his jacket, sliding a handgun from its holster, and Orian watches as he sets it neatly on the table. It takes Orian a few seconds to get exactly what’s weird about his face, what’s catching in Orian’s cogs and making the whole mechanism stutter and stop.

This guy, he— He looks _just_ like Orian.

Not just similar, either. No, no, this is— This is _uncanny_. The brown hair is different, sure, much lighter than Orian’s hair, and he’s a little younger, maybe ten years difference, but everything is the same. The cupid’s bow at the upper lip, the plumpness of the lower one; the shape of his jaw and cheekbones; the prominence of the nose; the depth of his brow; the _colour_ of his pretty brown eyes…

“Uh huh?” Orian asks, slowly. “And, mmm, how’s that, honey?”

“It’d— God,” the cop murmurs, taking a step closer, and he puts his hands on his hips, leaning slightly closer. “It’d be a real favour, darling, if you’d— If you’d let me put this gun in your mouth.” Orian blinks, slowly. Is this a joke? It’s got to be. It has to be a mask, somehow, but if it’s a mask, Hell, it’s _realistic_ , and this guy— The voice, too! The voice is pretty right!

“Really?” Orian asks. “You’re… You’re here to kill me?”

“Oh, no,” the cop says, feigning surprise, but the dark eyes remain full of intent. It’s— It’s not murderous, no, not exactly. There’s something _sexy_ in them, that resolve there. “I just think you’d really like it, Orian.” Silence reigns. There’s something about this guy, the way he holds himself, the way he talks, the way he _threatens_ , that makes a little interest stir low in Orian’s belly, but it’s— There’s something more than that. This guy looks at Orian like he _knows_ him, and that, Orian wouldn’t like, except that… Same face, what, are they cousins? There some connection here he’s missing?

( _All of his father’s siblings are long-since dead. Orian made sure of that.)_

“Seems you got me at a disadvantage,” Orian murmurs. “I don’t like being called my first name by those who, ha, who haven’t earned it.”

“I’m ready to earn it,” the cop replies sweetly. “Let me start by putting the gun in your mouth. I bet you’re just _aching_ for a guy that knows how to fuck you right, aren’t you, Orian?” Orian narrows his eyes, and Jensen moves quickly, but the cop is quicker: Jensen chokes at the chop to his neck, and he flinches hard as the cop’s gun, swiftly plucked back off the table, goes off _loud_ next to his ear. Orian winces at the sound, wrinkling his nose up, and Jensen cries out in pain, clutching at the side of his head. “Aw, no. Seems like I— Was that your ear drum, handsome? _Sorry_.” He doesn’t sound sorry. He sounds _hot._

He turns the gun on Jonah, and Jonah goes for his own piece, but Orian holds up his hand.

“Uh uh,” Orian murmurs. “You, uh— You let _me_ take the cop, Jonah. Give Jonah your weapon, would you, honey?”

“Sure can,” the cop says immediately, speaking lowly and affably, and he holds the handgun out to Jonah. Jonah pauses for a long few moments, staring down at it, but then he takes the gun, and he glances over the cop’s shoulder to Jensen, who is letting out the most _pathetic_ little noises—

Hm.

“Oh, take him out of here,” Orian mutters, waving his hand. “Send in Betty and Monique. And you, Jonah, you, uh… After you drop Jensen off at the hospital, you go home.” Jonah stares at him, his mouth falling open, as if he’s _surprised_ Orian doesn’t exactly require his services after freezing like that. Honestly, apparent clone or not, this is _security_ , isn’t it?

“Yessir,” Jonah mutters, and he leans to grab Jensen up off the floor.

Orian turns his gaze back to the cop. “You got anything else on you?”

“Just my wallet and my peachy tuchus,” the cop replies. Orian watches him for a long moment, through lidded eyes, and he raises his right hand, delicately twirling his index finger. With a big grin, the cop turns, and Orian looks at his ass – it _is_ peachy. Rounded, shown well in the tight slacks, and, uh— Mmm.

“You don’t seem like a very good cop,” Orian says.

“I’m not a cop,” the cop says: Orian lets out a derisive snort.

“You’re a cop.”

“No,” the cop murmurs, and he turns to look over his shoulder, meeting Orian’s gaze. It’s… It really _is_ weird, how similar his face is to Orian’s, how… How similar. “I retired last week.”

“Is that so? And, uh, tell me. Why’d a stud like you have to retire so early?” Monique and Betty enter the room – Monique’s a tall girl, broad-shouldered and strapping; Betty’s average height for a girl, but she’s _lethal_. Monique gives Orian a look over the cop’s shoulder, and Orian gives a delicate nod: _Yeah, he’s okay to be this close_. To the side of the room, he can see the barman and runner trying to keep on holding their murmured conversation, but both of them keep stealing glances at Orian and the cop. Interesting.

“Didn’t have to,” the cop murmurs. He takes a sliding step forward, looking down at Orian, and Orian inhales, his lips quirking up at their edges. “See, I, uh, I came across a picture of you in the paper, and I thought to myself, _God_ ,” the cop murmurs, and he reaches out. Orian doesn’t flinch, and he lets the cop draw his fingers over the lapel of Orian’s linen blazer, ostensibly to straighten a line that Orian knows damn well was already straight: his fingers are warm, and calloused. Not like Orian’s hands, which are kept carefully soft, well-moisturised. Nice hands – bet he plays a few instruments. “I just have to have him.”

“Seems a little incestuous,” Orian murmurs, even as he reaches out, putting his hand on the cop’s hip. He drags his palm down the bone, then leans a little further forward, cupping the cop’s ass with his hand. Mmm, _generous_ , but tight, too – he must jog. Nice.

“We’re not related,” the cop murmurs.

“You sound sure of yourself.”

“I’m sure,” the cop says, and then his hand is on Orian’s throat. Betty’s hand goes for her gun, but the cop doesn’t squeeze: his hard hand drags over the soft skin of Orian’s neck, then over the slight stubble on his jaw – he’s been thinking of growing out a beard, now that his hair is starting to go grey all over, but—

Mmm. _Warm_ hands, skilled. Definitely a piano player, at least.

“So you’re telling me,” Orian asks, his own hand sliding over the cop’s, gripping at it and keeping it in place. The cop’s pulse is steady, _completely_ steady, as if he’s entirely calm. He sure seems calm, but… Golly, how? Coming into a mob boss’ private time, putting his gun on the table, perforating the eardrum of one of his guards, and now with the play at _choking_ him? He’s lucky Orian’s such a laidback guy. “That you— You saw me in the paper, you turned in your cute little badge, and you marched yourself right here?”

“That’s right,” the cop murmurs. “ _Ex-_ detective Zachary Nichols, NYPD.”

“You’re crazy,” Orian says. Zach smiles, shows his teeth. They’re nice teeth, like Orian’s, straight and white. “We know each other?”

“No, honey,” Zach murmurs. “Why would you think that?” Zach leans in, and Orian lets him, dragging him closer with the hand he puts back on Zach’s ass. His tongue is hot and quick and _dexterous_ , and he kisses Orian hard, much harder than anyone’s dared to kiss him in over a _decade_. Orian groans into his mouth, lets Zach take hold of him, and when he draws back, Orian’s heart is beating a little bit faster, and he can feel the burn in his cheeks. There’s more than a smidgen of interest coiling in his belly now – he’s _excited_ , and he squeezes Zach’s ass a little tighter. “What do you say,” Zach murmurs softly, “that you, uh, dispense with the club tonight, huh? I’ll let you conduct a full cavity search.”

“Really,” Orian says, amusedly.

“So long as I can return the—” Zach stops. His gaze is averted down, not at Orian’s crotch, where Orian would like it to be, because he’s only human, but at Orian’s left hand. “Is that— Honey, is that a _vape pen_?” There’s an incredulity in Zach’s voice, but it’s laden with familiarity – once again, Orian is _sure_ that they must have met before, and yet, he doesn’t remember it.

Doesn’t remember it at all.

“Uh huh,” Orian says.

Zach puts his hand over his mouth, and for a second, he stifles a laugh, his eyes squeezing tightly shut. Orian hums, amused, and he reaches up, dragging the hand away so he can hear that laugh properly. It’s a cute laugh, coming from low in Zach’s throat, and it’s different to Orian’s low chuckles – it’s more open, more—

“You’re pretty,” Orian murmurs.

“Well, you know what they say,” Zach replies. “Everybody has a natural double.”

“Why are you here?” Orian asks cleanly.

“Why does anybody go anywhere?” Zach says. “For sex.”

“You’re here for sex.”

“Sure am.”

“With me.”

“Well, I didn’t come all this way to have sex with myself,” Zach says, and then his lips quirk. “Well—” There’s no instinct. Orian keeps waiting for it, for the gut punch that tells him he should push this guy away, that he means danger – it doesn’t come. No, Orian’s instincts tell him that Zach is _fun_ , that he’s harmless, and it’s plain to Orian that he _isn’t_ harmless. Interesting, that. Orian trusts his instincts, has always trusted his instincts, but here… They have to be wrong. This has to be… _Something_.

“You know me,” Orian says.

“Sure,” Zach says. “As well as I know myself.” Orian grabs for Zach’s throat, and he pushes him up from where he’d been sliding subtly to sit beside Orian: he squeezes tightly, but Zach doesn’t struggle, doesn’t choke or try to throw Orian off. He takes it, breathing evenly through his nose, the movements a little laboured. His heart is beating a little bit faster, now, he’s showing a bit of reaction; pupils are slightly dilated; skin is— Warmer.

“This getting you hot?” Orian asks in a whisper as he sets the vape pen on the table, grabbing at Zach’s hip with his other hand.

“What can I, uh, what can I say, honey? You and me,” Zach replies sotto voce, his dark eyes focused on Orian’s face, his expression… There’s something in that, something Orian’s never had directed at him before. Focused, concentrated, just a few degrees shy of _devoted_. “We’re made for each other. Same cast and everything.”

“What’d you leave behind in New York?” Orian asks, his tone slick and careful.

“Best bagels in the country.”

“Shut your damn mouth,” Orian says immediately. “Best bagels in the country are right here in L.A.”

“Bullshit,” Zach says. It’s a challenge, and it tastes like one: Orian wants to taste his mouth again, wants to catch Zach’s mouth under his own and bite open his lips, wants to see if he can draw a real reaction out of him. Not trust him – Orian isn’t stupid, no, he isn’t gonna _trust_ him. But… take him apart? Yeah.

Yeah.

Orian kisses Zach savagely, kisses him like the wolf he is, and Zach lets him in, kisses him right back. Zach is all but in his lap now, all light muscle and just the _tiniest_ bit of paunch, and yeah, Orian—

Gee. When’s the last time he was so interested in a guy so close his age?

 _Huh_.

“Is that a knife in your pocket,” Orian murmurs, “or are you just happy to see me?”

“It can’t be both?” Orian laughs, and he slides the knife out of Zach’s pocket, flicking it open. It’s a simple flick knife – _not_ standard issue for a cop, not even in New York, and it makes him grin. He glances at Zach’s turtleneck, which is soft to the touch, but visibly cheap. “Go on. Cut it off me.” Orian’s gaze flickers up, and he meets Zach’s eyes, glances at his lips, which are parted, and hungry.

“Who says I’ll stop at the sweater?”

“Who says I want you to?” Zach’s voice is deliciously low, dark and coming from right down in his chest— Oh, _yeah_. Who needs a line-up of twinks when the universe will drop an obvious set-up like this, right in his lap?

The knife clatters to the ground, and Orian kisses Zach again: this time, Zach bites him, and as Orian feels his lip split, he _moans_.

Shit.

 _Shit_.

“Cut if off me,” Zach says, and Orian feels his cock give a twitch at the sight of his own blood smeared on the cop’s chin before he surveys the room quickly – the barman looks _horrified_ , the runner pointedly looking the other way, and Betty and Monique are both politely averting their eyes. Mmm, that’s how it should be. Orian leans down, taking the knife up again: Zach’s breath hitches in his throat, and it makes Orian’s skin hot.

Bringing the knife to the hem of Zach’s sweater, Orian drags it upward, hearing the fabric tear. Zach drops his jacket off his shoulders as he arches his back, and Orian exhales as inch after inch of pale skin is bared to the dim light.

“God, baby, we have to put you in the _sun_ ,” Orian says disapprovingly. “You can’t move out to California and stay like _that.”_ Zach laughs, and Orian shivers at the feel of his breath against his neck, at the feeling of the cop’s hand in his hair.

“You can put me wherever you want,” Zach murmurs. Orian can’t see his face, but there’s something slightly odd in his tone – relief, relief and excitement and arousal, but— _Relief_? What, because Orian let him in? Because Orian’s gonna fuck him? Because—?

Too many questions.

He’ll answer them later.

Orian pushes Zach down onto the plush bench, and he begins to unbuckle his belt.

This is—

Mmm, this is impulsive, even for him, and he hasn’t even snorted a _line_ today. But… Hey. What’s life without a little impulse, huh?

And with Zach looking at him like that, greedy and hungry and with _Orian’s face_ , golly. Impulse control is the last thing Orian wants.

**Author's Note:**

> Hit me up on [my Tumblr.](http://dictionarywrites.tumblr.com/faq) Requests always open. 
> 
> I've now set up a Goldblum fan blog, because like... I mean, who is surprised? So check that out at [goldbluminspired.tumblr.com](), and DEFINITELY check out the watch parties I'm setting up! Every Saturday, I want to set up a watch party where we can all watch a livestream of some Jeff Goldblum content together, and this Saturday, we're doing [The Big Chill (1983)](https://goldbluminspired.tumblr.com/post/178553072066/watch-party-for-the)! Totally click the link for more info.
> 
> You'll notice this fic is part of a new collection, the [Jeff Goldblum Cinematic Universe](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Jeff_Goldblum_Cinematic_Universe) \- totally feel free to add your own fics and bookmarks to this one! This is for all Jeff Goldblum roles, but especially for ones from more minor fandoms, and I'm super excited about setting up.


End file.
